


Out of the Blue

by Saone



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Avengerskink, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Objectification, Pre-Movie, Romance, coulson is a closet romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saone/pseuds/Saone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint takes his clothes off, Coulson has an epiphany, and Natasha makes some inspired shopping purchases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a [prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7293.html?thread=14500733#t14500733) on Avengerskink. I started it weeks ago, and I kept thinking about scrapping it, but I just couldn't get 'cluelesslypornographic!Clint' out of my head. Finally, _finally_ everything seemed to come together as something much fluffier and romantic than I had originally anticipated. I do love happy endings.
> 
> Warnings: Not betad, grammarians beware. Objectification. Frottage.

"Okay," Phil says, looking at his watch, "Fury said that if we didn't hear from him by 1100 hours we'd be free for the rest of the-" Phil's cut off by a tee shirt - one that had been just on Barton's rather sweaty form - landing on his head. He hears a whoop, and when he pulls the offending - and smelly - material away from his face, Phil sees Barton running towards the sea.

"At least he kept his underwear on," Phil says with a sigh.

Natasha's got one eyebrow raised, and she's looking down at the lump of Clint's jeans. "It's kind of impressive how quickly he can get undressed."

"If you find that kind of thing impressive," Phil says mildly. "As I was saying, we're free for the rest of the day." He inclines his head slightly towards the bright, blue water. "Go on; I'll keep watch up here."

Natasha's lips quirk upward just a tad. She pulls her shirt over her head exposing a black bra, and Phil's eyes quickly drop down to his phone. Even if they're not moving on their target today, he still has work to do.

Phil wouldn't say the seaside villa they're inhabiting completely makes up for some of the previous safehouses SHEILD has set them up with - honestly, he's learned to be happy if the toilet they're provided is something other than a bucket - but it certainly helps. Phil makes some tea from the ludicrously well-stocked kitchen then goes out on the terrace. He settles himself in a comfortable rattan chair and fully intends to spend his time checking emails and being productive. More and more often, though, he finds his attention being drawn down to his two assets. 

Barton and Natasha are frolicking - there's really no other word for it - and the sight makes something disturbingly sentimental rise in Phil's chest. He watches as Barton aims a mighty splash towards Natasha, soaking the hair that she had somehow managed to keep dry. Natasha goes absolutely still. Barton, seemingly realizing his mistake, tries to make a run - or swim - for it. He doesn't get far. Natasha leaps onto Barton's back, and they both go down.

A little frisson of worry goes through Phil. It's silly because he knows that Natasha won't _seriously_ injure Barton. Probably. Still, Phil doesn't completely relax until their two bodies burst through the surface of the water again.

Barton's sputtering and grousing. Natasha calmly gives him the finger and starts floating on her back. Barton stares at her, then turns around and wades back towards the beach.

Now that playtime is apparently over, Phil knows he should turn his full attention back to his phone. Nothing good could possibly come from watching Barton rise from the surf like some sort of bronzed... Phil coughs and averts his eyes just as Barton's thighs break free from the water. Not that his discretion matters since the first thing Barton does once he's out of the sea is make a beeline straight for Phil.

Phil stifles a sigh, then bites back a curse because the wet cotton of Barton's heather gray boxer shorts have molded to every curve, and dip, and bulge of the man's nether regions. Phil has phenomenal will power, but he's only human, and his eyes scan, and assess, and _catalog_ everything he can. 

"Geez," Barton says as he draws closer, "somebody's touchy about her new dye job." When he reaches Phil, Barton stops and raises both his arms to the sky in a long stretch.

Phil wants to roll his eyes. And he would, too, if he wasn't sure Barton had no idea he was putting on a show. Phil's never met any other man who was so unselfconscious of his looks and the effects said looks could have on others. He's sure that Barton's lack of awareness stems from some childhood issue or trauma, but Phil doesn't like to think too closely on what Barton's early life was like. Doing so usually leads to a headache and a nearly overwhelming urge to punch something.

Barton turns slightly to gaze off down the coast, incidentally letting Phil have a good view of his profile. Any thought that might have been in Phil's head evaporates like the salt water rapidly drying on Barton's skin. 

While Phil's always aesthetically appreciated a well-built body or a handsome face, when choosing partners he tended to focus on cerebral attributes. Even when he was younger, his head was more likely to be turned by someone wielding a sharp wit than someone with a sharp jaw line - though, he's always been a goner for a pair of amazing eyes. So, it comes as a true surprise when the sight of Clint Barton's ass makes Phil's mental processors screech to a halt.

Phil's eyes have skipped over Barton's ass before, but that's when the younger man was wearing his loose uniform pants, or baggy jeans. This, _this_ was Clint Barton's ass covered by nothing but thin, wet, cotton that's hugging the pronounced swell and curve of his bottom like a second skin. 

Without his volition, Phil's gaze sweeps up, from the two dimples on either side of the lower part of Barton's spine, to the well-defined muscles in his upper back and shoulders, and down again past the rounded buttocks to a pair of strong thighs.

Phil can't help but lick his lips.

Fortunately, Barton's too occupied staring soulfully off into the distance to notice Phil's gaze glued to his backside. Unfortunately, Phil and Barton aren't the only two people on this secluded stretch of beach.

"Enjoying the view?" Natasha asks softly from far too close to be comfortable.

Phil doesn't jump, though it's a near thing, but Barton's entire body twitches.

"Christ, Nat," Barton says, turning around. There's a scowl on his face, but Phil can tell it's tinged in amusement. "Where the hell did you come from?"

Natasha innocently points towards the water. Her eyes drop down to the front of Barton's underwear. She purses her lips and lets out a long wolf whistle.

Barton tilts his head in confusion, then drops his chin to his chest and looks down. A flush steals across the very top of his cheeks, but he makes no move to hide or cover himself. "Huh. Well. So, now you guys have practically seen my junk." He shrugs. "Sorry, Phil."

Phil makes a noncommittal noise and finally manages to get his eyes to focus on his damn phone. He can still see Barton's form in his peripheral vision, though.

"I've actually seen it before," Natasha says. She settles in the chair just to Phil's left.

"What? When?" Barton demands.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Barton puts his hands on his hips, which really just helps draw more attention to the whole situation. "Uh, yeah, I would like to know."

"Children." Phil says with a warning.

"I'm hungry," Barton says, thankfully dropping his previous line of inquiry. "Anybody else hungry?"

"I could eat," Natasha says.

Phil makes a small, humming sound.

"Awesome." 

Barton turns to leave, and Phil physically moves his head to resist any temptation to peek. "Barton?" he says.

"Yeah?"

"Put on some pants." Phil doesn't have to be looking at the man to know the grin that's probably spread across his face.

"Yes, sir," Barton says.

As Phil hears Barton pad across the terrace and into the villa, he turns to face his other problematic charge. Natasha, who can school her face into the blankest mask Phil's ever seen - apart from what stares out at him from mirrors - looks like she just enjoyed a yummy bowl of cream.

"Don't," Phil says, trying to head her off at the pass. It doesn't work, of course.

"I'm intrigued," Natasha says. "You've worked with Clint for how many years now?"

"I'm not talking about this," Phil says, giving his attention once more to his phone.

"In all that time, had you really never noticed how delicious he is?"

Phil stays silent and tries to appear busy.

"Because, from the way you were looking at him just a few minutes ago, or the way you were looking at certain _assets_ of his, that-"

"Agent Romanoff," Phil says with a little more heat than he had intended, "what you think you may or may not have seen is not something that's up for debate or discussion. This matter, and everything associated with it, is dropped. Am I clear?" He feels flustered. Phil hates feeling flustered.

Natasha stares at him coolly. Phil waits. Natasha nods her head every so slightly and just once. Phil decides to delude himself into considering the matter closed.

_____________

 

When Barton calls them in for lunch a little while later, Phil realizes he had made a grievous error in his earlier order. He should have told Barton to put on pants _and_ a shirt. 

Phil's able to control himself better this time, but it's still a near thing as he takes in the sight of Barton's bare, broad, well-muscled back. His eyes follow the line of Barton's spine down to where his jeans hang almost obscenely off the round swell of his ass. Phil can see more skin now than he did when they were outside, and it hits him, rather sharply, that Barton must have taken his boxer briefs off before he put his jeans on.

Phil's not sure how a low-slung pair of jeans can seem more obscene than the sodden underwear he was wearing earlier, but Barton somehow pulls it off. 

A vicious little jab to his lower back has Phil moving from his place in the doorway to fully enter the kitchen. Natasha slides in behind him and gives him a smirk.

"Plates are on the table, guys," Barton says, turning around. He's got a ladle in one hand and a pot of something in the other, but Phil can barely see past all the _skin_ that's still on display.

He shakes his head, sidesteps Natasha - who once again gives him a _knowing_ look - and takes his place at the table. Phil needs time to think, to try and figure out just what the hell's wrong with him, but he has to get through lunch first. Even trying to save the remnants of his poor, beleaguered mental faculties wouldn't be worth the _look_ Barton would get on his face if Phil disappeared without eating any of the food he had made.

Phil comes to the abrupt realization that it might already be too late for his poor, beleaguered mental faculties. The fact that Barton has sidled up beside him, far within the boundaries of Phil's personal space bubble, still shirtless and smelling like salt air and sunshine, is definitely not helping.

Neither is the wickedly gleeful gleam in Natasha's eyes.

"Okay, guys," Barton says, putting a ladle-full of some kind of chicken and vegetable dish on Phil's plate, "eat up."

Phil waits until Barton has served Natasha - and has stopped leaning enticingly across the table to do so - before he picks up his fork and digs in. He makes an involuntary happy noise as the mystery dish's flavors hit his tongue.

"I always forget what a good cook you are," Phil says after he swallows.

Natasha, her own mouth full, gives Barton a thumbs up with the hand not currently using her fork like a shovel.

Barton, who's taken his own seat at the table, beams. 

The three eat in companionable silence. All too soon, Barton's wonderful concoction is gone. Phil leans back in his chair. Barton does the same and puts a hand on his belly. Natasha leans back, puts a hand on her belly, and lets out a truly impressive burp.

"You're all class, Nat," Barton says.

"Why should I hold it in when the only people here are you two?" Natasha says with a shrug. "It's not like that's the grossest thing we've done in front of each other. Or do I need to remind you of the food poisoning incident in-"

"I thought we all agreed to never bring that up again!" Clint says with a hint of horror in his voice.

"I'm just saying," she continues, " that I think it's safe to say that we've seen each other at our worst."

Phil narrows his eyes a fraction. He can tell Natasha's up to something, and he can guess that it has to do with her earlier deductions regarding Phil's new-found - and unwanted - interest in Barton's _assets_. 

"And, I'd like to think, we've seen each other at our best as well." Natasha's eyes focus like twin blue lasers on Phil. "You've seen Clint at his best, haven't you, Coulson?"

Phil's traitorous mind readily supplies him with images of Barton's 'best'. "I've seen both of you accomplish some truly amazing feats," he says mildly.

"Aw," Clint says, grinning, "he does love us."

The corner of Natasha's lip barely quirks upwards, yet she still somehow manages to come across as utterly smug.

"I tolerate you, Barton," Phil says, trying to gain some control back. Barton's grin fades, and Natasha's face shutters, and Phil feels something that he thinks might be close to guilt battering at his insides. 

Phil pushes himself away from the table. "Thanks for lunch," he says. "There's what looks like a study just past the bathroom. I'm going to try and get some work done. I'd prefer to not be disturbed." He doesn't look at either of his assets as he leaves the kitchen. Natasha starts to say something, but Phil's gone before he can make it out.

_____________

 

True to his word, Phil does _try_ and get some work done. The desk in the study is all heavy dark wood, and the chair he's sitting in is plush and leather. Phil just knows he could accomplish some impressive report reading in such an atmosphere. But, after reading the same line over again for the fifth time, he gives up. Something's not sitting right with him, and he doesn't just think it's the new and inappropriate thoughts he's having about Barton.

Speaking of...

Phil curses as his mind helpfully supplies said inappropriate thoughts for Phil's viewing pleasure. Phil's dick, evidently just as traitorous as his head, wholly supports the mental play-by-play that's going on. It's when Phil's hand gets involved - creeping down to press at the crotch of his slacks - that he knows he's in real trouble.

For a moment, he thinks about indulging himself. Phil has an excellent imagination and he could utilize it now, but would an indulgent jerk off session be worth never being able to look Barton in the eye again.

Phil likes Barton's eyes.

Phil appreciated Barton's eyes _long_ before he started appreciating Barton's ass.

Phil is... Phil is having a very unwanted epiphany.

Because Phil can evidently add repression to the long list of things that's he's amazingly good at.

"No," Phil says softly. "No, no, no."

But while Phil may be good at repression, he's never been that great at denial. Now that he knows what to look for, it's all too easy to cast his mind back and pick up on various clues that, in retrospect, seem glaringly obvious. And when Phil puts all those clues together, they show quite plainly that he's been falling for Clint Barton for years.

While Phil could still do without certain more annoying attributes, Clint's intelligence, his wit, his focus, are all things Phil prizes highly. He knows, without a doubt, that if he had met Clint under different circumstances, he would have pursued him, caught him, and possibly wedded him by now. 

Phil frowns and taps one finger against the desk. Could he really be that much of a stickler for rules and regulations that he subconsciously wrote off a potential man of his dreams just because he's one of Phil's subordinates?

Yes. Yes, he could.

Now that Phil's metaphorical eyes have been opened, however, there's no going back. He's going to have to make a decision.

Phil knows what he wants, but he still makes two lists in his head. As the 'pro' list grows longer and longer, it becomes obvious that Phil might be a bit biased. When the 'pro' list reaches three dozen items, Phil stops.

Satisfied that, if nothing else, he can claim to have made a fair and balanced accounting of the archer's positive and negative traits - or something - Phil slides his finger across his phone's screen, dials a number from memory, and waits.

"What's wrong?" Fury asks, picking up after the second ring. "Why are you calling on this line? Did you get made? Is somebody dead? Somebody's dead. Romanoff snapped and killed someone, didn't she? Goddammit! I knew we should have-"

"Hey, Marcus?" The name rolls off Phil's tongue easily even though it's been years since he's used it. 

"Yeah, Cheese," Fury responds, sounding oddly subdued. The Director is gone; it's just Phil's best friend on the line now.

"Remember when I saved your life?"

Fury snorts. "Which time?"

"Exactly," Phil says. "I'm calling in a favor."

_____________

 

Barton's on the terrace, tucked into the same chair Phil had occupied earlier. He had put a shirt on at some point, but his feet are still bare. Phil spends more time than he'd care to think about hanging back in the shadows watching Barton's toes curl into the chair's cushion.

After Phil starts to creep himself out, he steps out onto the terrace and clears his throat to make his presence known. 

"Hey," Barton says, not bothering to take his eyes off the water.

"Where's Natasha?" Phil asks. He resists the urge to look over his shoulder.

"She went into town," Barton says. He rolls his head along the back of the chair until Phil's in his eyeline. "She wanted to go shopping. Said we need swimsuits and sunscreen."

"That's fortuitous," Phil says, taking the chair next to Barton. "I talked with Fury. He said the op's been postponed for at least two more days. It might be scrubbed all together." Fury had then told Phil to not break his favorite sniper, but Clint didn't really need to know that part.

Clint closes his eyes and hums a soft, little sound. "That's nice. I like it here."

Phil stares at Clint's open, relaxed face, and he tries to come up with something, anything, to say. He realizes now that he should have prepared notes before he left the study. He doesn't even have any talking points.

"Barton..." Phil pauses. He licks his lips. " _Clint_ , I-" Phil bites off whatever else he was about to say. Clint's eyes have shot open, and he's untucked himself from the chair. He's sitting upright now, his shoulders as tight as one of his bowstrings.

"What's wrong?" Clint asks. 

"Nothing's wrong," Phil says.

"But you called me... You never call me..." Clint narrows his eyes. He angles his body toward Phil's. "Are you trying to soften me up for something? You never try and soften me up for anything. Are you dying? Am I dying? Am I being burned? Is there a kill order on me?!" Clint whips his head around probably looking for snipers or assassins.

Phil's a little impressed with how quickly this has spiraled. 

"Barton, I used your given name to add an intimacy to our conversation," he says. "I obviously misconstrued how you would take such a gesture."

Clint focuses back on Phil. He blinks a few times. "You... Intimate... What?"

Phil does not sigh, though he kind of wants to. "I want to discuss the possibility of the two of us pursuing a romantic relationship. Before you ask, this isn't a trick, I'm not joking, and Sitwell isn't hiding in the bushes with a camera."

Clint stares at Phil for an immeasurable amount of time. Finally, his mask breaks. Clint smiles, soft and sweet, and he ducks his head a bit. He's being _bashful_ , and Phil wants to tackle him.

"Really?" Clint asks. "You mean it?"

Phil finds himself wanting to do absolutely ridiculous things like taking Clint's hand or rubbing his thumb across Clint's cheekbone. "I do."

"Um..." Clint runs a hand through his hair. Phil thinks he'd like to to that too. "I'm a little thrown here, sir," Clint says.

"Have you never entertained the idea?" Phil asks. Wooing Clint from scratch would be more difficult and require more energy and time than Phil had allocated to this endeavor. It would still be worth it, though.

"Oh, I've _entertained_ some _ideas_ ," Clint says. "Usually when I'm in the shower." There's a light blush stealing across the tops of his cheeks now. "I just never thought you'd, you know, have ideas of your own."

"Trust me, Agent, I have a lot of ideas." Phil lets himself smile. Clint looks a bit shocked. "But if we go down this path, I'm not just interested in the physical aspects of a relationship. I want it all."

"I think," Clint says, "it might be best if you spell it out, sir? Maybe with small words. Try to keep them around one syllable."

Phil gives into one of his earlier impulses. He reaches out, cups Clint's face, and lets his thumb lightly stroke over the skin of Clint's cheek. Clint's pupils dilate slightly despite the late afternoon sun.

"I like your brain as much as I like your body," Phil says. "You can have other people underestimate you, if you'd like, but never hide your intelligence from me."

Clint swallows. Phil can feel the movement under his fingers. "Okay."

"Good," Phil says. "By 'it all', I mean I want us to be out and open. I want us to eventually live together. I want us to lounge on our couch and for you to make fun of the shows I like to watch. I want us to do each other's laundry and have mild disagreements over whose turn it is to wash the dishes. I want to spend holidays together. I want you to meet my family. I want us to get a cat. I want to, after the proper amount of time has passed, put a ring on your finger, even if you have to take it off every time you go into the field. That's not everything I want, obviously. But I think you should get the gist of my proposal."

For the longest time, Clint doesn't say anything. Phil waits. He's good at waiting.

"You're aiming pretty high, sir," Clint says with a rough voice.

"I may not have your skills," Phil says, "but I usually manage to hit my mark."

"Hmm." Clint smirks. "Veering slightly off-topic, I guess it's okay for me to say that you look really sexy when you're shooting at something."

"I'll keep that in mind," Phil says. "Considering how much I've always enjoyed watching you with your bow, I think that supply closet just off the target range is going to start seeing a fair bit of action. If we both agree to take this further, of course."

Clint makes a soft, choking sound. "Damn, Coulson."

"Phil. Call me Phil."

"Phil."

Phil didn't anticipate the shudder that would result just from hearing his name fall from Clint's lips, but it's there, running up and down his spine. His heart stutters with this odd, little triple-beat. Phil hopes he's healthy enough to survive this courtship. Not to mention the sex.

Sex.

"I need your input on the situation, Clint," Phil says. There's the slightest hint of urgency in his voice, and he wonders if Clint can hear it.

Clint cocks his head to one side. "Are you... Are you horny right now?" Clint's face is filled with some sort of unholy glee. Phil doesn't feel the need to strangle him. It must be love.

Clint laughs, but before Phil can feel too put out, he finds himself with a lap full of well-muscled archer. Phil's usually not surprised by how fast Clint can move, but then Clint's never used his speed on Phil before. 

"Is this okay?" Clint asks.

"As long as the chair holds up," Phil says. He lets his hands settle on Clint's hips and brings him in a little closer, a little tighter. 

Clint grins unrepentantly when he settles against Phil's dick. "Well, I guess that answers both my questions, huh?" He rests his hands high on Phil's shoulders, close to his neck, and rubs at the muscles there. "You're tense," Clint says.

"I'm always tense."

"Want to see if I can change that?"

"Yes. Please." Phil tightens his grip on Clint's hips. "But, not here. Inside."

"You're worried about the chair falling apart," Clint says wryly.

"I want to see what you look like stretched out across a bed," Phil says. And he's worried about the chair falling apart. "Second door to the right of the stairs. Navy sheets." He lets his hands ruck up under Clint's shirt and stroke along his ribs. "Your skin's going to look amazing against navy sheets."

Clint lets out something that's dangerously close to a whimper. He slides off of Phil's lap and grabs one of his hands. Phil laughs as Clint tugs him out of the chair and then into the house.

"I love when I get you to do that," Clint says, looking oddly smug.

"What, follow you somewhere?" Phil asks. He inhales sharply as Clint turns, forces him against a wall, and kisses him until he's breathless.

"No," Clint says, before giving Phil's bottom lip a soft nip with his teeth. "When I get you to laugh. I love hearing you laugh."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Clint busses Phil's nose, then takes his hand again. "C'mon."

They make it upstairs and into Phil's chosen bedroom. Phil decides that Natasha was right; Clint's swiftness in getting undressed is impressive. And, it's a skill that extends to getting other people out of their clothes as well.

Phil lets Clint get one good leer in before he's tumbling him onto the bed. They can't do everything Phil wants - neither one had the forethought to grab anything resembling lube on the way upstairs - but just having all of Clint's glorious bare skin pressed against him is enough to have Phil's pulse jackrabbiting.

Clint opens his legs, and Phil slips between them. They rub together almost lazily at first. Phil leans down to take Clint's mouth. The kiss they share starts sweet, but gets filthy fast. Clint lifts his legs so his thighs are tight around Phil's flanks, and one of his heels presses into Phil's right buttock.

Phil takes that as a sign of encouragement. As he starts to thrust against the body beneath him, Clint rolls his hips upward. Their skin, now slick with sweat, glides together easily. 

Clint's heel presses in again, and it spurs Phil to move faster, harder. Someone's moaning, and Phil doesn't think it's him, but he can't be sure, not when all his attention is taken up by the lightening coursing through his veins and the look of raw bliss on Clint's face.

Phil comes too soon, but he's evidently been denying himself this secret love for years, so, all things considered, he's kind of okay with his performance.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Coulson," Clint mutters before somehow flipping Phil onto his back. Clint ruts against Phil wildly until his body tenses in one beautiful arc, and Phil feels something warm and wet splash against his hip. Clint keens softly, then collapses onto Phil's chest. 

When Phil manages to gather up enough brain cells to move, he leans down and presses a soft kiss into Clint's hair. He then shoves at Clint's shoulder.

"Off," Phil says. "Heavy."

Clint snorts and tugs at Phil's chest hair. "Is the romance gone already, sir?"

"Don't call me sir in bed," Phil says. "Unless we're roleplaying." Phil's brain momentarily goes offline again at the sheer number of _possibilities_ he could explore with Clint. A sharp pinch to the skin just below his ribs brings him back.

"You're a total perv, aren't you?" Clint says fondly. "I like a little light bondage, myself. Just putting it out there."

"Duly noted." This time when Phil shoves at Clint's shoulder, he rolls off of him and onto the other side of the bed. The distance between them only lasts a second as Clint quickly scoots over and plasters himself against Phil's side.

"This okay?" Clint asks softly. One of his hands has already reached up to play with the hair on Phil's chest again.

"More than," Phil says. He turns slightly so his nose is pressed against Clint's temple. Between one breath and the next, he's asleep.

_____________

 

When Phil wakes up, he's alone. However, between the wreck of a bed that he's in and the disgusting mess on his skin, he's fairly certain that he didn't just dream up his encounter with Clint. Phil realizes, with no small amount of consternation, that he never did get a clear answer regarding what Clint wanted for the two of them.

Well, if Clint's run, Phil's just going to have to hunt him down. 

Phil's just about ready to get up and hit the shower when the door to the bedroom opens, and Clint slips inside. He's just wearing his jeans again, and Phil's mouth almost waters.

"You weren't supposed to be awake yet," Clint says sheepishly. He holds up two bottles of water, and Phil can see that one's already been opened and partially consumed.

Phil reaches out one hand, and Clint tosses him the unopened bottle. Phil cracks the seal and down almost half of it before coming up for air. Clint's staring at him.

"That shouldn't be anywhere near as hot as it was," Clint says.

Phil smirks at him.

"So, Natasha's back. She's very happy for us both," Clint says.

Phil just bets she's happy. She's also probably going to be insufferable for a while. 

Clint's reflexively clenching something in his left hand. Phil glances at it and raises one eyebrow.

Clint shakes his head and blushes. "She, uh... She was evidently at the start of a campain to get you to jump my bones."

"Of course she was."

"Anyway, that's uh..." Clint's blush gets darker. "That's the reason she went into town. She thought it might help things along if she got me... Well..." Clint throws the item in his hand at the bed. It lands in the middle of Phil's chest.

Phil gingerly picks up what appears to be some sort of blue material. It's a speedo. But it's not just any speedo. What Phil's holding is possibly the skimpiest speedo in existence.

"This is for you?" Phil asks, once he can get his tongue working properly.

Clint nods. "For some reason she's under the impression that you have a thing for my ass."

"I have a thing for your everything," Phil says, as he absently fingers the scrap of fabric.

"Would it make you happy if I wear that?" Clint asks.

Phil can't help but let out a little bark of laughter. "It would make parts of me very happy." 

"Okay then," Clint says with a nod. And that's that. He's willing to pour himself into a tiny piece of spandex just so Phil can ogle him.

Maybe Phil's not the only one who's in love.

"You know, she got you a suit too," Clint's grin is decidedly wicked.

Phil peels himself out of the bed. "Unless it's a two-piece, wool and silk blend Dolce & Gabbanna, I'm not interested." He knows that Clint's staring, and Phil can't help but feel the urge to pull in his stomach.

"Of course, there's always something to be said for ditching the suits entirely," Clint says. There's a sparkle in his eye that should be illegal. "You ever been skinny dipping, Phil?"

Phil has not. But, for the first time in his life, the thought does have its appeal. 

Yeah, Phil's pretty sure this is love.

_____________

end


End file.
